


hand in unlovable hand

by aviator8



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bittersweet, Character Development, Enemies to Friends, Forgiveness, Friends to Enemies, Platonic Male/Male Relationships, Platonic Relationships, Post-War, Reunions, Swearing, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-14 03:21:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29411859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aviator8/pseuds/aviator8
Summary: "Stop, why are you letting go of me, Schlatt--""I'm not escaping this time, Will."His face is no longer scared, but--accepting. And that terrifies Wilbur, more than anything else. “I love you, big man.” Schlatt smiles, his face open and peaceful. Wilbur will see that smile every day for the rest of his life. And Schlatt lets go.Just like that, he’s gone. Swept away by the raging current.It’s five years before Wilbur sees him again.
Relationships: Jschlatt & Wilbur Soot, No Romantic Relationship(s), Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 2
Kudos: 42





	hand in unlovable hand

**Author's Note:**

> title from "no children" by the mountain goats
> 
> wilbur and schlatt's dynamic is partially inspired by the lovely and talented [itisjosh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/itisjosh/works), definitely check some of his stuff out :)

_i am drowning_  
_there is no sign of land_  
_you are coming down with me_  
_hand in unlovable hand_

“Wilbur, Wilbur, please--”

Wilbur’s hands are numb, and he can’t stop shaking, and he’s never seen so much fear in Schlatt’s eyes before. Not when he fell out of a tree when they were little and broke his arm, not when his dad kicked him out and he turned up at Wilbur’s doorstep with a black eye and a backpack holding all of his worldly possessions. Schlatt’s leg is pinned beneath a rock, and they’re in the little cave they discovered while exploring a month or so ago. They’d lost track of time today, too caught up in their conversations that bounced off the cave walls. Phil had warned them about exploring the cave, and Wilbur had submitted but rolled his eyes behind his old man’s back. Neither Will nor Schlatt are expert swimmers, preferring to run loose in the woods or do petty thievery in the town square. And now the tide is coming in, and with it, Wilbur’s panic. 

“Schlatt, I can’t reach you, oh fuck, Schlatt. Shit. Shit.” The water doesn't stop coming, pouring in. It’s endless. Schlatt looks behind him, measures the water. His fingertips are tinged blue and bloody where they’re digging into the rough stone. Something in Schlatt seems to calm, then, and his face is no longer scared, but--accepting. And that terrifies Wilbur, more than anything else. “Whatever you’re thinking, don’t. Stop, why are you letting go of me, Schlatt--”

“Call me Jonathan. I think someone should know my real name.” He laughs wetly, takes a deep breath. “I’m not escaping this time, Will. I’m stuck. You’re endangering yourself by staying.” Those are tears shining on his face, mingling with the water. Wilbur wants to say something, anything, but the words won’t come out. “I love you, big man.” Schlatt smiles, his face open and peaceful. Wilbur will see that smile every day for the rest of his life. And Schlatt lets go.

Just like that, he’s gone. Swept away by the raging current.

It’s five years before Wilbur sees him again.

. . .

The people of L’Manberg are cheering. His country has just won the war against the tyrannical Dream and his cronies, and they’re excited to enter a new era of peace and prosperity. In the spirit of democracy, Wilbur’s announced an election for the next president. He’ll win, of course. He is L’Manberg’s founder and savior, and with Tommy, Tubbo, Niki, Jack, and Fundy at his back, they will bring the nation to a level of glory which has hitherto never been seen.

The bright yellow flags are fluttering in the summer breeze, and the polished blackstone walls are standing tall and strong, and as Wilbur surveys the celebrating masses gathered below the podium, he feels something swelling in his chest. Something glowing and warm. Pride, perhaps. Victory.

Until, that is, he sees a ghost. The singular face in the crowd not joyous, or worshipping, or anything of the sort. The man is staring at him, and Wilbur’s jubilant grin fades as he stares back. He hasn't seen that face in five years. He thought he’d never see that face again.

Schlatt.

Schlatt, his best friend. Schlatt, who drowned in a flood when they were both sixteen.

As if in a trance, he mumbles an excuse to Tubbo, and makes his way to the back of the podium, stumbling down the stairs. Tubbo looks back at him, concerned, but Wilbur barely notices. He’s intent on shoving his way through the crowd.

Tommy’s voice echoes over the crowd, magically enhanced by some potion Niki brewed up for this sole purpose, but his little brother’s words are static in his ears.

Wilbur is taller than most everyone in the crowd, so he has little trouble locating Schlatt. The other man is standing in a still pocket of air, somehow undisturbed by the people around him. His hands are in the pockets of his dress pants, and his suit is unrumpled. He is utterly nonchalant, and as Wilbur nears him, he jerks his head towards a little alley next to a newspaper stand.

When Wilbur ducks into the alley, he finds Schlatt leaning against a wall, cupping his hand over a lighter as he touches the small flame to the tip of a cigarette. He doesn’t look at Wilbur until it’s lit, and he takes a deep drag before speaking.

“‘Sup, asshole?” Smoke billows out of his nostrils.

Wilbur can’t help himself, he reaches out and touches Schlatt’s shoulder. He needs to know that this is real, not just some awful hallucination coming back to haunt him on this day of joy. His hand meets the solid mass of Schlatt’s arm. He’s bigger now. They both are. They’ve shed the scrawniness of childhood and put on height and muscle. Wilbur’s still taller, though.

“Oh, man, Wilbur, what’s up with you? You look like you’ve seen a ghost or something.” Schlatt’s smirk is sinister in the shade of the alley. The noises of celebration and the tail end of Tommy’s speech are muted and off-putting in the gravity of the moment.

“Schlatt, I--” His words come out weaker than he would have liked.

“You what, Wilbur? You what?” Schlatt pushes off of the wall, advancing towards him. Wilbur takes a step back. He really, _really_ doesn't like the look in Schlatt’s eyes. His back hits the opposite wall of the alley, and Schlatt doesn't stop prowling towards him. “You... left me for dead? Forgot all about me? Didn't even bother looking for my body?” Wilbur has a good six inches on Schlatt, but he’s never felt as small as he does now. “You’re not talking, Wilbur. And I just gave you a damn good list of things to talk about. So, fucking talk.” He puts his cigarette out on the wall behind Wilbur’s head and flicks the butt behind him.

“Schlatt, what are you _doing_ here?” Wilbur whispers.

Schlatt blinks. And then he cracks up. His laughter bounces off the narrow walls of the alley, but it’s not a joyous sound. The laughter dries up as quickly as it flooded in, and Schlatt mimes wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. “Oh, that’s rich, Wilbur. That’s fucking _rich_. What am _I_ doing here? It’s simple, I suppose. I’m going to rip your country out from under you. I’ll run for president, and I’ll win, and then I’ll burn this place to the fucking ground. And if I go down with it, who cares? Certainly not you. All that matters, Wilbur, is that you know what it is to _drown_.”

. . .

One thing about Schlatt is that he always follows through on his promises.

Wilbur knew that. He’s always known that, and yet it still caught him off guard when Schlatt became the new president, the self-proclaimed emperor of L’Manberg, now called Manberg. Even now, two months after that gods-forsaken day, the words “ _My first decree as the president of this great nation is to_ revoke _the citizenship of Wilbur Soot and TommyInnit!_ ” still ring in his head. Here in Pogtopia, where the sun never shows her face and the ravine walls echo with the groans of wounded soldiers following skirmish after pointless skirmish with the Manberg troops, there’s not much to take his mind off of it.

Betrayal hurts worse than any bodily injury ever could.

He supposes that was why Schlatt did what he did, so Wilbur would know what it felt like. But Wilbur never betrayed him, Schlatt chose to let go that day in the flood, and they were both kids, too young to know better, surely it’s not _his_ fault--and so his thoughts spiral ever down.

Wilbur tramps down the rough-hewn stone stairs carved into the side of the crevasse that his people now call home. He diligently ignores the soft greetings from his soldiers, weaving through the bedrolls tucked at the base of the staircase. He will never understand how they have maintained their hope for this long, how they’ve kept their faith in him. He, who is so clearly unworthy of anyone’s faith.

Wilbur ducks into the makeshift infirmary where Niki’s set up shop, where Tubbo lies unmoving on a cot, white bandages secured across his face and chest. Tommy sits next to his unconscious friend, shoulders tight and face carefully blank. He’s barely moved in two days, since the disastrous festival. Wilbur’s already heard the men call it the Red Festival, in memoriam of the blood that will forever stain the podium now, after Tubbo’s execution at the hands of Technoblade. Yet another in the long line of Wilbur’s failures.

A bowl of potato soup rests untouched on the bedside table. Techno’s been bringing Tommy food in silent apology, and Tommy’s having none of it. His brothers. How are they going to recover from this?

Wilbur watches Tommy for a moment more. His baby brother. He’s barely sixteen, and he’s already fought in two wars. That’s two more than anyone should have to fight, let alone a child. Tommy’s flecked in scars, and his hands have callouses from his ever-present sword, and the dark circles under his eyes are permanent these days. His childhood’s been stolen away from him, and Wilbur knows for certain that it’s his fault. God, how is he supposed to face Phil now, to look his father in the eyes and tell him that he dragged his brothers into a fucking warzone?

His chest is tight, all of a sudden, and he can’t breathe. He has to get out of there.

Tommy doesn't look up as Wilbur ducks out of the doorway.

. . .

It’s easy enough to slip into Manberg.

He knows these streets like the back of his hand. The moon is a sliver in the night sky, and no one spares a second look at a tall man in a trenchcoat headed for the White House. 

Wilbur barely pauses to think, until he finds himself at the President’s door.

Light seeps out from the crack beneath the slab of dark wood, along with the scent of smoke and booze.

He’s alone in the dark corridor. No one is standing guard outside. Either Schlatt is really confident that no one wants to assassinate him, which Wilbur doubts, or he doesn't care enough to bother. Wilbur leans his forehead against the door, bracing himself. 

He opens the door.

There’s a merry little fire dancing in the grate, and Schlatt is seated behind his desk, the one that used to be Wilbur’s. He used to write songs and sign Declarations of Independence on that desk, and now it’s dinged up and covered in unidentifiable stains. Quackity is seated across from Schlatt, and judging from the tension in the room, they had probably been arguing before he entered.

In an instant, Quackity is standing, drawing a sharp little knife from some hidden pocket. The blade is at Wilbur’s throat before he can say a word. “The fuck do you want, buddy? You’ve got some nerve, showing your face around here,” the vice president snarls at him. Wilbur doesn't spare him a glance. He stares at his old friend. Schlatt doesn't budge. He regards Wilbur disdainfully, his signature red tie unknotted and his hair messy. Wilbur notices the empty glass bottles collected on the various surfaces, and the one perched on Schlatt’s desk that’s half-full of some unidentifiable brown liquid. He swallows. Perhaps coming here was a bad idea. But it’s rather too late now, and he may as well get it over with.

“Dismiss your henchman, Schlatt. I’m unarmed. I’m just here to talk.” Whatever Schlatt sees in Wilbur’s eyes must convince him, because he nods at Quackity to leave. Quackity protests, but Schlatt pins him with a stare, and the vice president leaves, casting one last hateful glance in Wilbur’s direction. Wilbur’s not sure what he’s done to personally offend Quackity, but he supposes it doesn't really matter.

The door clicks shut, and Schlatt waves Wilbur over.

Wilbur sits down across from him. He refuses the drink Schlatt offers him and forces himself not to wince as Schlatt takes a swig straight from the bottle of liquor. His spies had reported that Schlatt was an alcoholic and that it would probably kill him, but--Jesus.

“Alright, Wilbur, what do you want?”

The last time Wilbur heard Schlatt’s voice was when he ordered his brother to kill his other brother’s best friend. The time before that was when he exiled Wilbur and Tommy from the country they’d built together. It’s hard to not let the rage he felt, the raw terror of his loved ones being endangered, seep into his voice when he answers. “I think it’s time you and I had a talk.”

“Then talk.”

“You’re a mess, a fucking mess, Schlatt.” 

The president chuckles, propping his feet up on the desk. “You’ve always been good at getting straight to the point, Wilbur. I used to admire that about you.” 

“You know, I thought you were dead. I mourned you.”

“Well, I’m terribly sorry about that.” His voice drips with sarcasm. “Doesn't change the fact that you left me. That you never even bothered looking for me. You gave up on me, Wilbur. And I will never forget that.”

“Is that really what all of this is about? We were children, Schlatt. There was nothing I could have done to help you.”

“ _C’est la vie._ That’s life, Wilbur. Here I am. Here you are. Do with that what you will. I don't know what you want me to say. Now, if that’s really all you came here to ask me, then get the fuck out.” He reaches for the alcohol again, and this time Wilbur can't bear to watch. He turns away and ignores Schlatt’s pointed scoff as he walks out.

“Oh, and Wilbur?”

He pauses, leans against the doorframe. He looks back at Schlatt, who grins at him, more a baring of teeth than a genuine smile. “When all of this is said and done, you’re gonna be the one to pull the fuckin’ trigger, man.” Chekhov’s gun all over again. There’s really no escaping it. Wilbur wonders why he ever bothered trying to.

He doesn't know why he came here tonight. Closure, maybe. A sign that he was doing the right thing, or even a sign that he was doing the wrong thing. Whatever he was looking for, he didn't find it.

When he curls up on his bedroll in Pogtopia later, it’s a long, long time before sleep claims him.

. . .

Wilbur thinks this is what everyone means by an out-of-body experience.

He knows that he’s shouting at Phil, hateful, awful words spewing past his lips. He knows he’s begging, pleading to Phil to make it stop, to make it all stop. He knows his ears are still ringing from the explosion, and that Phil’s wings are ragged and bloody from when he’d leaped in front of Wilbur to shield his son from the blast. But he feels oddly detached from it, like it’s someone else’s body experiencing these things.

Pressing the button, destroying L’Manberg once and for all, has been Wilbur’s singular focus for weeks and weeks, his sole purpose. Now he’s achieved that goal. And he wants it all to be over.

So, when Phil stabs him, finally, _finally_ , Wilbur barely feels it.

When he dies, he doesn't hold on.

He lets go.

. . .

Schlatt is waiting for him.

His archnemesis, his friend, his brother, his foil, is sitting against a gnarled oak tree. He’s wearing a sky-blue sweater, and he looks relaxed. A half-empty bottle of alcohol rests in the grass next to him, but he doesn't reach for it.

Wilbur looks down at himself. He’s not wearing the trenchcoat he wore when he--when he died. Not even his old L’Manbergian uniform. He’s wearing a simple yellow sweater, one he remembers from his teenage years. He thinks maybe Niki knitted it for him, before the flood. Before a lifetime of hatred and sorrow and war and regret. An artifact from a simpler time. Maybe that’s why he’s wearing it.

“So,” he calls out to Schlatt. His voice rings clear in the pure air, so different from the brimstone and ash of L’Manberg’s ruins. It just looks like a meadow at twilight, but everything sort of glows with clean white light. In the distance, there’s a forest. He can see a faint glow through the thicket, perhaps a little cabin, or a campfire. Wilbur feels truly safe for the first time in a long, long time. If he’d known that this was what death was like, he’d have let himself come here a while ago. He doesn't dwell on that dark thought for too long. “This is it, huh?”

Schlatt smiles, not a hint of venom or malice behind it. “Yep. This is it. I’ve been wondering when you’d turn up, old friend.” Wilbur walks over, sits down so they’re both leaning against the old tree. Fireflies are starting to come out, glowing softly amongst the wildflowers and tall grass. “Y’know, I’m a little surprised. I thought we’d end up somewhere way different. Hellfire and eternal punishment seem more our speed. Surely that’s what we deserve.”

Wilbur tips his head back. The sky is slowly darkening, the pastel oranges and purples of the sunset fading to night’s navy and black, threaded with silver stars. The constellations aren’t ones he’s familiar with. “Probably.” It’s easy enough to admit to that. Everything’s on the table. There’s not much point in keeping secrets anymore.

“We were shitty fucking people, Wilbur. Of course it’s what we deserve.”

Wilbur laughs softly. “Yeah. You’re right. But I guess we don’t need to worry about that now. We made it this far, Schlatt. You and I--I reckon we’ve got an eternity here. Maybe it’s time to start appreciating what we’ve got.”

He rests his head atop Schlatt’s and tries to remember the last time he received physical affection. He can’t. Schlatt, to his credit, doesn’t push him away or swear at him.

They’re silent for a few minutes, or maybe a few hours. Maybe longer. Time holds no real weight here. Above them, the great wheel of the cosmos spins, and the stars travel the paths they’ve traveled since the beginning of time and will travel until the end of time. Somewhere, crickets chirp and a river flows softly. If this is eternity, Wilbur thinks he can live with that.

“Hey, Schlatt?”

“Yes, Wilbur?”

“I love you, man.”

“Yeah, yeah.” A long pause. “I love you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> i haven't written anything in ?? three ?? months, and then i spat all of this out in a day. i watched wilbur's [sea level rising video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UFhTkAj_J0U) and listened to "no children" and my brain just went hoooly shit
> 
> this was actually really fun to write, so i do hope you enjoyed. kudos and comments are super super appreciated <3
> 
> follow me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/honkblade) ahaha


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